At tour abysses, this tyranny of passions,
while to wrestle our inclinations: this lethargic feeling, as drilled a sin,
our music this symbol exploding our skies; those gray balloons, this need for
excitement, as to demand its location; as infants whine, while souls groan,
this mythical magic as only reaching so far: that bold outburst; our moody
temperaments; this vacuum inverted as blackholes; as fiery mind-reach,
occasioned to fly, engulfed those sad winds.
I season arts, at love to perish, uprooted that concrete location—this
vexing web, those combating eyes, that second in time by such charisma: if but
agony, we grieve our focus, unraveled by sheer intrigue: that reclusive person,
dancing with graces, at envies our mirror’s openness: those witty responses,
alive that feeling, at sudden lightning a bit disgruntle. Our skies as jasmine and jasper, seeking our
conveyance, to invest in sheer artistry: those broad strokes; our acrylic
pestilence; our inner Armageddon—to seize with admissions, this venture of
spiders, such by cadence partly destroyed: whereat, those faces, blended into
whirl-skies, at cries this silence fusion—those bold soliloquies, that portrait
shifting at brains, this whisper urging our catastrophe; as but a second, this
windfall-logic, to deduce with flights this fantastic calamity. I churn heart-caves, influenced by silence,
at tired-paces influenced by urges: this wilted expression; our trefoils
bearing witness; where roses pause as speaking abeyance: that tulip prancing,
at terrible friction, our daisies as sheer romanticists—those years at desires,
to come to clearance, at treacheries to escape this probing insistence: that
in-between, that wishful agony, this manuscript we call life—to perish love, as
dying embarrassments, at inner shrines: that tipsy smile; those steep jitters;
that reluctant but forward laugh; to cry impermanence, while concretizing
family-life, where innocence is cultivated near springs: this lavish joy, as
rich with elation, while conscious that decision to invest mobility; where love
is seasoned, as winning is raw, those seeds to souls at blossom come
autumn. [I don’t know us, at fairest
fantasies, where both are equipped: this feral passion, as rotating mirrors,
this laughter seated in primitive layers; as this theme at chimes, buried in
prosaic guts, where it felt good to suffer this impossible scream. I know our passions, this simmering
conglomerate, our community racing towards closures: if but this life, as
compared to that life, as needing this atypical clairvoyance; where Love is
raw, as passions excite, while literature tugs at inner binoculars: those
chests wheezing; our lungs to smaze; this vex as sifting out that leprechaun’s
castle—where rubies glisten, that Land of Promise, to perish an extinct
legacy. Our laughs to sorrow; our
sorrows to laughs; as never that typical closure: while lost in gems, or found
in clarity, while tugged this inner poet].
I feel fuses, this human connection, our mystery embedded in elves: this
sober resistance, as looking to morning, where neither feels quite at peace:
this marvelous woman; this cultic emotion; this telescope demanding closure; as
scientific, where humans are variables, this irrational element; that fine
print, our signatures in spirit, this vest plummeted by fantasies—as knowing we
knew, for life’s cultivations, our souls tillage’d by phantasmagorias: this
infant with dreams, at membrance that shadow, to come to life by sheer
objectives; where love is warm, as never a thought, while nights are ravished
by intuitions: those fair feelings, as dying our loses, while sutured by our
gains; whereto, this furious fever, as love to die living, or at love to live
dying: this shift at hearts, as pleased to witness, this mystical element at
raptures.
